


Don't know how and where to go

by popsongnation



Series: Urge To Kill [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - Serial Killers, Ambiguous/Open Ending, M/M, Road Trips
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-22
Updated: 2014-05-22
Packaged: 2018-01-26 03:17:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1672706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/popsongnation/pseuds/popsongnation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He and Stiles used to plan road trips a lot growing up, but the reality feels different. There were never any dead bodies in his fantasy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't know how and where to go

**Author's Note:**

> All the thanks in the world to [adventuring](http://archiveofourown.org/users/adventuring/pseuds/adventuring), my cheerleader, plotting help, research assistant and formidable beta who guided me through the insane process of writing something this long. 
> 
> Title from _Is it Right?_ by Elaiza, because yes, I am that person. 
> 
> Lovely people made art: [1](http://markzuckerbergs.tumblr.com/post/86592007709/then-why-dont-you-he-asks-quietly), [2](http://whateverdelusional.tumblr.com/post/86628473989/i-killed-a-lot-of-people-scott-dont-know)
> 
> **Rated M for non-graphic murder and a very tame sex scene.** More detailed, spoilery warnings at the end.

**_day one_ **

It starts with his phone ringing in the middle of the night. Scott doesn’t recognize the number, but only one person has ever called him at two am.

“Stiles?”

“Scott? It’s—yes, how did you—?”

Scott wants to say, ‘Who else could it have been,’ but that’s not exactly true. He hasn’t heard from Stiles in six months, hasn’t seen him in nine.

“I just—are you okay?”

Stiles laughs kind of hysterically. “Yeah, I’m, I’m fine, awesome, listen, I need to see you.”

Scott has so many questions. He wants to ask ‘why now?’ but all that comes out is, “Now?” And it doesn’t sound inquisitive or challenging or sarcastic, just kind of desperate and eager. It’s been so long since he heard Stiles' voice.

“Yes, yes, now, or, where are you?”

“I’m at home?”

“That’s perfect. Okay. Meet me at that diner your mom took us to after finals? You know, the one with the awesome pancakes?”

“Okay, give me half an hour, I’ll be there.”

“Thanks, dude. Really. Thank you.” And Stiles does sound thankful, sincere and less hyper than he did seconds ago. Scott tells himself that all his questions can wait until he can see Stiles. He has no idea what is going on, but Stiles will explain. Everything will make sense in thirty minutes.

-

The last time Scott had seen Stiles was at graduation. Stiles had been wired all day, fingers constantly tapping. Scott had just assumed it was thrill of finally being done with high school, which Stiles had hated.

After the ceremony he’d hugged Scott too tight before climbing in his jeep and driving off. They were supposed to meet back at Scott’s house, but Stiles never arrived. After three hours, once everyone had started to get worried, the Sheriff got a call from Stiles saying that he was going on a road trip, that everything was okay, that he needed to figure shit out, that he’d be home soon.

Then nothing for months, except infrequent text messages and a few postcards. Just before the fall semester was about to start, Scott received a voicemail, not on his cell but his mother’s landline, left at a time Stiles would have known no one was home.

_Hey, it’s Stiles. Um. Scott, I’m sorry. I’m not coming home._ A swallow. _Not any time soon, at least. There’s some shit I—I’m really sorry, okay._

A week after that, Scott tried to call Stiles’ cell, even though Stiles hadn’t answered the last five hundred times Scott tried. This time the number had been disconnected. Scott left for college the next day. They were supposed to go together.

Then nothing. Until today.

-

When Stiles hangs up, Scott jumps out of bed, puts on pants and shoes and grabs his keys and wallet. He doesn’t brush his teeth or use the toilet, too afraid his phantom of a best friend will be gone if he doesn’t make it there in time. It makes no sense, Stiles called him, Stiles wants to see him, but something in Scott’s stomach is convinced this is like that nightmare with the endless staircase.

He makes it to the diner in twenty minutes. Stiles is sitting in the farthest corner, red hoodie and dirty jeans, hair longer than Scott has ever seen on him, but Scott picks him out immediately. There is a plate in front of him that once contained a hamburger, judging by the wrapper and a lonely piece of lettuce, and he’s twisting the napkin into a tight string. When Scott sits down opposite him, it takes Stiles a minute to look up.

“Hey there.”

“Hey.” Stiles smiles, but it looks strained. There are shadows under his eyes.

Scott has tried to imagine this conversation a thousand times, and he’s never been successful. Turns out he’s even less successful at coming up with what to say now that it’s happening.

He wants to ask, ‘Why did you leave?’ but he can’t see Stiles giving him a straight answer. Instead he asks, “Are you okay?” again, since Stiles doesn’t look okay.

Stiles looks up quickly at him, then back down at his hands, still twisting the napkin. “I’m in deep shit, Scott.”

“Is that why you left?” Scott wants to bite his tongue immediately, but it’s out now and he can’t take it back. All he can do is not to add, ‘Why didn’t you come to me?’ He knows it would come out accusing, and that’s not going to help. Stiles will only lie. Stiles always lies when people accuse him of something, no matter whether he’s done it. It’s like an instinct.

Stiles looks at him again and smiles ruefully. “Yes and no. I’m just screwed up. I had to get out. But now it’s worse.”

“What happened?”

Stiles tears the napkin in half. “Do you want to eat anything?”

He should be used to Stiles’ non-sequiturs, but it’s been a while. “Um?”

“If not, let’s get out of here. I have to show you something.” Stiles is already on his feet. He looks nervous but resolute, like the time in seventh grade he’d decided to climb the tree in Scott’s backyard, to prove he wasn’t afraid of heights.

Scott gets up and follows him out of the diner and to the parking lot. Stiles' jeep is parked in the darkest corner, and for the first time Scott wonders what he’s doing here, why Stiles is here in the middle of the night instead of sleeping, why they couldn’t have done this in daylight.

Stiles unlocks the jeep and slides in, opens the passenger door. “Come on, get in.” Scott doesn’t hesitate for a moment, if only because he’s sure that if he did, Stiles would leave without him. Maybe for good, this time.

Stiles turns up the radio all the way. Scott looks out into the darkness and tries not to wonder where they’re going. Stiles is quiet, fingers tapping all the while without rhythm. They drive for some time. Stiles seems to choose all the darkest back routes, but there is only so far away from civilization one can get without getting completely lost. The road they eventually end up on isn’t paved, the narrow passage almost overgrown with trees and bushes. Stiles stops only when they can’t go any farther.

He turns off the engine and stays seated for a moment. Scott thinks his hands might be trembling, but it’s hard to tell in the dark. Scott’s heart is pounding, now, but he doesn’t know why. With Stiles, he has never felt unsafe.

Stiles turns toward him, and for a moment it seems like he wants to say something but then decides against it. Instead, he reaches over to Scott’s side and opens the glove compartment, rummages around a bit and then pulls away with two pairs of disposable gloves. He hands Scott a pair. “Put those on.”

“Why?” This is getting weirder by the second. Middle of the night, abandoned road in the middle of nowhere and now disposable gloves?

“Just do it. Please, Scotty. Trust me.” And Scott does. He does. So he puts the gloves on.

Stiles nods at him and gets out, and Scott follows.

Stiles pops the trunk, and for a moment, Scott can’t see anything. There isn’t any light anywhere except from the moon. Stiles had turned his headlights off.

There’s a body in the trunk.

For a moment, Scott can’t breathe. Nothing makes sense. He closes his eyes, swallows, opens them again.

“It was an accident,” Stiles says, voice quiet. “I didn’t—I couldn’t— I ran them over,” he ends on a whisper.

Scott can’t say anything. He doesn’t have the words. He wants to hug Stiles, tell him everything will be okay, but he can’t. For one, Stiles doesn’t look like he wants to be hugged right now. Secondly, how could this ever be okay?

He can feel Stiles’ eyes on him and raises his gaze from the body. The dead body in Stiles' trunk. Stiles’ eyes look dark in the moonlight, and Scott can hear him swallow. “Will you, will you help me bury them?”

Scott nods mutely. He is still trying to wrap his brain around this when Stiles opens the driver's side door again and reaches down. He comes back with two shovels with retractable handles.

“Why do you have these?” The words are out before Scott can stop them.

Stiles averts his eyes. “I need them, don’t I? Come on, help me here.” He reaches in and takes hold of the body, tugs until two arms come free to grab onto. “Take the legs. Scott, come on, you said you’d help.”

Scott takes the legs. His hands grip at the ankles. There’s a stretch of exposed skin there, cold to the touch. Scott lifts his face to the sky, looks at the stars and breathes. If he can stop thinking of them as a person, a dead, possibly rotting person, he will be able to do this. The gloves help.

It’s much heavier than seems possible, heavier than any living person would be. _Dead weight_ , he thinks. They carry the body away from the road, into the underbrush, until it becomes too hard to walk. When they set it down, none too gently, there’s a dull thump. Scott cringes, but Stiles is already in motion again, methodically clearing a patch of earth of leaves and branches.

Stiles goes to retrieve the shovels, telling Scott to wait there for him. Scott has lost all his words. He stands in the dark forest, wondering if this is a dream. It feels real but, at the same time, not real at all.

Stiles comes back with the shovels, handles already extended, and hands one to Scott.  
“Here,” he says, making a mark in the ground with his shoe. “Start here, it has to be at least this wide,” he makes another mark, “and go until there,” another one, a few feet away.

“Try to pile all the dirt over there, we need those leaves to cover it up later.”

Scott swallows, dry. “You’re way too good at this. All those crime shows come in handy?” It’s a weak joke, but he needs to say something. It’s eerie.

“What can I say, cop kid.” Stiles shrugs, smiling a little.

They work quietly for a while after that. The earth is soft from recent rain, but it’s still hard to dig a hole that deep and wide. Scott pauses twice to use his inhaler. It’s at least half for comfort. His heart is beating fast, but he thinks that’s not all physical.

“Thank you for doing this,” Stiles says quietly. “I know this is… insane.” He swallows.

Scott exhales slowly and says, “You know I’ll help you, no matter what.” Because it’s important.

Stiles laughs, and it sounds a little wild. “I know.”

Scott doesn’t ask what would have been bad enough, then, for Stiles to take off without telling him. This is not the time for that.

A few minutes later, Stiles says, “Stop. It’s finished.”

Scott hadn’t even realized, too caught up in the hypnotic rhythm of shovels hitting earth. He climbs out of the hole and takes hold of the body again, unprompted. They lift it up and let it fall. The thump is even louder this time, but it doesn’t bother Scott as much as before.

Then the moon comes out behind a cloud, fully illuminating the scene for the first time that night. And Scott sees the person in the grave.

It’s a woman, late twenties, maybe, with dark hair. Her eyes are still open. Scott’s knees buckle, and he sits down quickly before he falls. Stiles looks at him, expressions changing so rapidly Scott can’t catch up. Calculating, then sad? That makes no sense. Finally, he settles on something unreadable that Scott has never seen before. Scott looks away, down at the ground between his sprawled-out legs.

“We need to close her eyes,” he croaks.

“Okay,” Stiles says, “I’ll do it.” He jumps into the grave, smoothes his gloved hand quickly over her face. “There, done.” Scott barely manages to check if it’s true, doesn’t know why he has to, but feels it nevertheless. Stiles draws back so Scott can have a better look. Scott nods once he’s confirmed the woman’s eyes are closed. He stands up again on shaky legs and gives Stiles a hand to help him up as he climbs out of the grave again. He feels that is important, too.

He only realizes once he’s let go this was the first time he’d touched Stiles today. The first time he’s touched him in nine months.

Scott’s hands shake all through filling the grave with earth. When they’re done, he stands and watches Stiles hammer out the disturbed ground with his shovel, then cover it with the leaves and branches he’d cleaned away when they began. Scott doesn’t know how long they’ve been here. It’s still dark, though, not yet dawn.

“Good, that should do it,” Stiles says, turning to him at last. “Give me your gloves.”

Scott pulls them off, concentrating on stilling his hands. Stiles takes them and sticks them in his hoodie pocket, then strips off his own and puts them there, too.

When his hands are bare again, he walks over to Scott, touches his shoulder. “Hey, are you okay?”

“Yeah, fine.”

Stiles sighs. “You’re not fine. But you shouldn’t be, either.” He stops, looks for a moment like he wants to add something else but doesn’t. “Come on, I’ll treat you to breakfast. Pancakes, okay?”

Scott doesn’t feel hungry, but he nods.

-

The atmosphere in the car is different than it was before, less tense. The radio is off, and Stiles makes comments about morning traffic and road upkeep intermittently as he drives. Scott keeps his eyes closed. He’s not sleeping, or even trying to, but he can’t think of what to say and his entire body feels heavy.

Stiles stops on a bridge and gets out. Scott watches him drop the disposable gloves over the railing, then stretch and rub both hands through his hair like he does when he’s trying to clear his head. It sticks up wildly after that.

Scott quickly closes his eyes again when Stiles turns back toward the car. He hears the car door open and close, and then Stiles touches his face lightly with two fingers, there and gone in a second. Scott doesn’t move a muscle.

They end up at the same diner they met up at earlier. By now, the sun has started to rise, and the sky is pale, like it hasn’t decided yet what color to be today.

They sit down by a window this time. The waitress they order pancakes from recognizes Stiles, and he smiles sheepishly when she asks him if he’s had a good night.

“It’ll be even better after those pancakes,” he says. “They’re amazing.”

The pancakes _are_ amazing, just like Scott remembers. He hadn’t felt hungry before, but now he realizes he’s starving. “So,” he says, clearing his throat. “They say the people who help you hide a body are the ones you should keep around.”

Stiles flinches, then smiles. “Well, yeah, I was planning to.”

“You’re not going to ditch me again?”

Stiles looks down at the table. “Not in the near future.” He raises his gaze again, looks Scott right in the eyes. He speaks quickly, like he might change his mind. “Actually, I was thinking, you’re on break now, right? And I’m here, and you’re here. Let’s go on a road trip.”

“Didn’t you just come back from, like, the longest road trip ever?”

“But that wasn’t any fun!” Stiles flails. “You weren’t there. Come on, this’ll be good. Bro time!”

Scott wants to say yes, but he still hasn’t gotten any answers. “Don’t you want to be here for a while first? See your dad? I’m sure he misses you.”

Stiles looks torn for a second. “Dad understands. Or, he will. I need to do this first,” he says quietly.

“Stiles, why did you go?” Scott has to ask, and for the first time, it looks like Stiles might answer him.

“I had some shit to work out.” Stiles stares down at his hands, splayed on the table.

“And did you work it out?”

“I think so, yes.” He looks up again, eyes tired.

“Will you tell me?” Scott is trying his hardest to be gentle. Whatever it is, it has to be huge. He has no clue what would make Stiles disappear like he did. Ever since Scott can remember, they’ve done everything together. There’s no secret of Stiles’ he doesn’t know. At least, he used to think so.

“Eventually.”

Stiles' hand has begun tapping again. Scott reaches out and covers it with his own.

Stiles looks at him. “So, road trip?”

Scott smiles back. “Definitely.”

“Okay, let’s go then. We shouldn’t be anywhere near here,” he lowers his voice, “when they find the body.”

“Do you think that will be soon?” Scott whispers. “I think we hid it pretty well.”

Stiles looks caught out for a second. “How should I know? I just feel uneasy, hanging around here.”

Scott can understand that. “Okay, when do you want to pick me up?”

“Can’t we just go immediately?”

“No! I still have the car, and Mom needs it. Plus, I have to pack some stuff. Like a toothbrush.”

“We can buy a toothbrush! You can put the car in the driveway, call your mom from the road.” He sounds distressed, but for the first time, Scott can guess why.

“You don’t want anyone to see you, do you?”

Stiles exhales. “No. Not before I’m done with the thing that I’m doing. Please, Scott?”

Scott doesn’t ask what thing that is. “Okay, well, Mom is asleep right now, she just came back from a suicide shift, forty-eight hours or something. I can go in, grab some stuff and then we go. It’s the asscrack of dawn, Stiles, no one’s gonna see you.”

“Okay. Thank you,” Stiles says, sounding relieved.

Scott figures the thanks is for not asking any more questions, but he doesn’t say anything.

-

Scott leaves a note for his mom, telling her something’s come up, he’ll call her later and not to worry.

He packs two pairs of pants and four t-shirts, his toothbrush and some toiletries, hesitates a moment before taking his marked-up copy of 1000 Places to See in the USA & Canada Before You Die.

He and Stiles used to plan road trips a lot growing up, but the reality feels different. There were never any dead bodies in his fantasy.

Stiles is idling the car in front of the house when he steps out, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel. Scott puts the bag in the backseat and throws the book in Stiles’ lap.

Stiles laughs out loud when he picks it up, has to cover his mouth with one hand to stifle it.

“What’s so funny?” Scott asks, frowning.

“Nothing. I’m just surprised you still have this.” He sounds solemn.

“Of course I do. We were always planning on doing this.” Scott can’t pick up on Stiles’ mood right now. It changes like the weather.

“It just seems like so long ago. I thought maybe you’d moved on to better friends.”

“There are no better friends than you, Stiles,” he says firmly. He’s not going to bring up Stiles’ vanishing act again. Stiles has promised to tell him eventually.

Stiles smiles, wry. “I _am_ awesome at a few select things.”

“Like driving when sleep deprived? Seriously, how long have you been awake, you look like death.”

“A while. You wanna drive instead?” He’s already pulling out of park, though. Scott frowns at him.

“You can drive as soon as we’re out of Beacon Hills, promise.”

-

Scott calls his mom from a gas station a few miles outside town while Stiles is inside buying snacks.

“Scott? I found your note, what’s going on?”

“Stiles is back, we’re going on a road trip.”

“Didn’t he just come back from a road trip?” his mom asks, echoing Scott’s earlier words. “Has he been to see his father? You know his dad is worried sick, right?”

“I know, Mom. And no, he hasn’t. There’s something going on, but we’ll work it out.” Talking to his mom makes Scott realize how little he really knows about what _is_ going on. He has nothing to say to her, since he can’t very well tell her he spent his night burying a body in the woods.

“Don’t you start that cryptic shit with me, Scott. He’s been away for ages, what’s going on?”

“I don’t know, Mom, okay? He hasn’t told me yet. But he came back. I think he just needs some bro time before he’s ready to face the music. We’ll be back in a week or two.”

His mom sighs. “You’re a good friend, you know that?” That’s Melissa McCall for ‘Why am I saddled with a son whose best friend is such a handful?’ Scott knows, because growing up, he heard that one a lot.

“I know. It’ll be fine, Mom,” he says.

“Don’t get into trouble, okay?” she says.

“We won’t. Don’t worry.”

“Love you.”

“Love you too.”

“And call me!”

“I will. Bye.”

“Bye.”

Scott startles when Stiles touches his shoulder. He extends an open bag of chips like a peace offering, talking around a mouthful. “That your mom?”

“Yeah. She’s not happy, but it’s okay.”

“Did you tell her not to tell my dad I’m back?” Stiles asks.

“I don’t think she’d have listened to me if I did,” he says.

“Yeah, true.” Stiles doesn’t look happy about that.

“You want him to know you’re okay, right? When’s the last time you called him, anyway?”

Stiles looks away. “Last week. Come on, let’s go, I want to make it to Battle Mountain before it gets dark.”

-

While Scott drives, Stiles sleeps, feet drawn up onto the seat, face smushed against the window at what looks like an awkward angle, and Scott can’t help glancing his way every so often.

He’s seen Stiles sleeping in uncomfortable positions a thousand times, but never has he felt lucky to be able to watch him do it. He knew he’d missed Stiles, but only now does he realize how much.

It’s quiet in the car. He turns on the radio, listens to a missing person’s report and a story about a double homicide in Oakland while contemplating what to have for dinner. Pizza sounds really good right now, but pizza always sounds good. He can see them eating nothing but pizza for the entirety of the trip.

When Stiles wakes up a while later, Scott asks him, ”What do you think about pizza?”

Stiles yawns. “It’s a delicious and nutritious food, and a food group unto its own, why?”

“I was thinking more like, for dinner.” He smiles.

“Yes! Why is that even a question?” Stiles asks, sounding incredulous.

“It’s not, I’m being courteous.”

“Woah, big word.” He shoves Scott’s shoulder.

Stiles takes the wheel again and they drive for another hour. Night falls around them, and it’s quiet in the car. There has never been this much silence with Stiles, and the uneasy feeling that had settled in Scott’s stomach this morning wakes up again.

Just when Scott can barely take it anymore, Stiles throws him his phone and tells him to google motels and pizza places in the area.

They arrive at the motel with pizza boxes already in hand. The guy at the reception looks less than amused, but doesn’t say anything.

They eat the pizza while watching a _South Park_ rerun on the crappy television the room is equipped with. The picture keeps flickering, no matter how many times Stiles hits the top of the TV with his flat palm.

“I think if you keep going, you’re going to break it. And then that receptionist is going to kill us,” Scott says.

Stiles makes a fist, pressing his mouth together in an unhappy line.

“Nah, he wouldn’t dare. We have to be the first customers this shithole has seen in weeks.”

Scott contemplates saying that surely Stiles has had to stay in worse places, since he’s been gone this long, but decides against it. “Come on, it’s not that bad. The sheets are clean!” he says instead.

“You don’t know that. You don’t know where that guy has been. You could be contracting a fatal disease right now,” Stiles argues, but his heart doesn’t seem to be in it.

Scott rolls his eyes. “Whatever. I’m gonna take a shower.”

“Don’t sit on the toilet or you’ll get a tapeworm!” Stiles shouts after him. Scott is pretty sure it doesn’t work like that, but he lets Stiles have the last word.

The water pressure is abysmal and the water is only lukewarm, so Scott feels inclined to let Stiles smash the TV if he wants to by the time he comes out of the bathroom ten minutes later. He’s only marginally mollified by the fact he’s gotten to brush his teeth and doesn’t feel as filthy anymore.

When he enters the room, Stiles is lying sprawled out over the bed, looking at the ceiling. The mood in the room has shifted again, and Scott doesn’t know what to make of it.

He stands in front of the bed for a full minute, but Stiles doesn’t seem to notice him.

“What’s wrong?” he finally asks when Stiles still doesn’t move. The silence is killing him.

“I called my dad,” Stiles says tonelessly to the ceiling.

“And?” He doesn’t understand where the problem is.

“He asked if I’m ready to come home.” He can see Stiles close his eyes.

“You are, aren’t you? That’s why we’re here?” Scott hates that he has to phrase it as a question.

Stiles looks at him at last, eyes unreadable. “Yeah. I’m ready to go home alright.”

He has no idea what to make of that, so he changes the subject. “You were right about this place. The shower is terrible.”

Stiles smiles, but it looks forced. “What did I tell you? Never doubt me again.” He gets up from the bed and goes into the bathroom. “Don’t wait up, I’m going to get my money’s worth.”

Scott shakes his head at him and gets into bed. They’d gotten a double since it’s cheaper and they’ve never had a problem sleeping in the same bed together. The receptionist hadn’t batted an eye, which Scott thinks disappointed Stiles. He loves riling people up.

Stiles stays in the bathroom for a long time. Scott can hear the water running for half an hour. It must be freezing cold by now, but Stiles doesn’t give any indication of discomfort. It is so quiet, in fact, that Scott starts wondering if he’s slipped and brained himself on the shower wall, except he’d have heard that. The walls are as thin as paper.

He turns off the light, so it’s dark when Stiles enters the room a while later. He lies down under the covers as far away from Scott as he can get, and even in the dark, Scott can tell he’s shivering. He wants to say something, but he doesn’t know what.

He waits until an appropriate amount time has passed so that Stiles could feasibly have fallen asleep before rolling in close and wrapping his arms around Stiles' freezing body. Stiles tenses, then relaxes, so Scott knows he’s awake. But he doesn’t say anything, and Scott doesn’t either. He just lies in the darkness, breathing in the scent of Stiles’ shampoo until he finally falls asleep.

-

**_day two_ **

Scott wakes up with a weight on his chest. It takes him a second to realize that during the night, Stiles managed to roll halfway on top of him and is now drooling on his chest. Scott has a mouthful of unfamiliarly long hair, so he coughs a bit before poking Stiles in the side, where he knows Stiles is the most ticklish.

“Hey, you’re squashing me.”

“Huh?” It takes Stiles a minute to wake up, even with Scott’s relentless poking. When he’s awake enough to control his limbs, the first thing he does is kick Scott in the shin as hard as he can from his current position, which thankfully isn’t very hard at all.

Stiles rolls off of him and groans. “This bed is so uncomfortable.”

“Or maybe that’s just me, since you were basically sleeping _on_ me,” Scott says.

“Nah, you’re comfortable. It’s the bed that’s killing my back,” Stiles says.

Scott has to smile at that. “If you say so.”

They don’t get out of the motel until eleven, after Stiles goes on a coffee run and Scott manages to find his right sock, which had somehow made its way under the bed. Receptionist guy scowls at them, since they were probably supposed to be out of the room by ten, but again doesn’t say anything. Scott thinks Stiles is probably right about the lack of customers.

The sky is dark gray when they leave, and soon afterward it starts raining like the world is ending. Stiles drives, since only he has any idea where they’re going, and Scott stares out into the rain, trying to interpret the muddled blobs of color swimming past.

Stiles' fingers keep tapping and tapping on the wheel, and Scott wants to reach out again, wants to ask him what has him so on edge, but Stiles has this faraway look on his face that says he wouldn’t appreciate being talked to. So Scott keeps staring out the window, intermittently sneaking glances. Stiles is looking straight ahead, and when he’s not tapping, his hands are gripping the wheel so tightly his knuckles turn white.

Scott must have dozed off for a moment, because he startles when the Stiles pokes him in the shoulder sometime in the afternoon. The car is parked in front of a roadhouse.

“So, I was thinking, food now, then more driving, then sleep? Because the way we’re going there’s nothing for miles, so it’s best if we eat now,” Stiles says.

“Yeah, okay,” Scott says, rubbing his eyes. “Mind telling me where we’re going, by the way?”

Stiles laughs, an edge to it. “No, not at all. We’re going to Nashville. Wasn’t that obvious?”

It hadn't been, not to Scott, but maybe that was just because he'd never had any particular interest in going to Nashville.

They get out of the car, and Stiles stretches, popping his spine. The rain has quieted down to a drizzle now, and Scott looks around, trying to determine where they are. Stiles is right, there’s nothing for miles, just road flanked by muddy grass stretching to the horizon as far as he can see.

The food at the roadhouse isn’t good, but it’s edible.

They eat mediocre burgers with soggy fries in silence. Stiles can’t tap his fingers while he’s eating, but he fidgets, watching the people around them instead of looking at Scott, gaze jumping between customers like he’s searching for someone.

“You alright?” Scott asks.

“What? Yeah, yeah, fine.” Stiles looks at him quickly, then away again.

“You just seem—hey, are you listening?”

Stiles shakes his head like he’s trying to throw something off, then rubs his eyes. “Yeah, I’m just tired, sorry.” He stands up. “I’m gonna go to the counter and pay, we should probably get going.”

Scott watches him go. Stiles is staring straight ahead now, movements deliberate, and it’s unsettling to watch, like he’s a stranger.

He looks over at Stiles’ plate, his half-eaten burger, and for a moment he wants nothing more than to go home to his mom, where things make sense and he doesn’t feel this unsure about something that should be safe and comfortable. He swallows and blinks, pushing the thought away. Stiles wants him here, even if it doesn’t seem like it half the time. Whatever is going on, they will work it out.

Stiles comes back a moment later and smiles at Scott. “I can promise you I will not complain about anything tonight, no matter how terrible the bed is. I’m beat. You want to drive for a while? It’s not far anymore.”

Scott nods. He can tell Stiles is trying to act normal, and there’s no creepy stillness anymore, but he looks like he’s suppressing some major anxiety and Scott doesn’t know what brought it on. He used to be really good at reading Stiles, until he suddenly wasn’t anymore.

While Scott drives, Stiles sits silently in the passenger seat, fiddling with his keys. Scott glances over surreptitiously in irregular intervals. Stiles is staring out into the rain, which has picked up again, like it holds an answer he desperately needs.

They only end up going thirty more miles before Stiles tells him to get off the highway at the next exit. It ends up leading straight to a rundown motel. Stiles didn’t consult his phone before deciding to stop here, so Scott figures he must have stayed at this place before.

The motel is a lot worse than the last one. Scott is dubious about the cleanliness of the bedsheets this time, and the stains on the carpet are telling stories he really doesn’t want to hear. Stiles, true to his word, doesn’t say anything about it. Usually, Scott would nag him, but in the face of today’s overall weirdness, he decides not to.

Stiles didn’t lie about being tired, apparently, because he decides to turn in immediately, brushing his teeth at the dirty sink and crawling into the bed. Scott follows suit.

He is almost asleep when a thought occurs to him.

“Stiles?”

“Yeah?” Stiles mumbles.

“About what happened yesterday. How come you had the shovels and the gloves?” he asks hesitantly.

“You caught me, Scott,” Stiles says, acidic, and he sounds completely awake now. “I got them at Walmart before I called you, because I thought you might help me dig a really deep hole, okay?”

“Oh, okay,” Scott says, sheepish. Stiles sounds pissed off, and that’s the last thing he wanted to do. He’s not sure why he even asked. What did he think Stiles would say?

There’s some shuffling, and Scott realizes Stiles has moved as far away from Scott as he can get without falling off the bed. Scott wants to say he’s sorry, but he bites his tongue.

He lies awake for a long time, listening to Stiles’ steady breathing and the rain hammering against the window.

-

**_day three_ **

Scott hadn’t realized he’d hoped to wake up tangled up with Stiles again until he’s confronted with the reality of it very much not being the case. He can hear the shower running and the rain still falling outside, but otherwise it’s quiet, and he takes a moment to just be sad without trying to prod at the reason for his sadness.

Stiles exits the bathroom a short while later, saying, “Ugh, I probably contracted herpes in there,” and something in Scott unclenches.

“I thought you weren’t going to say anything?” he teases, hopefully.

“That was yesterday,” Stiles says. “Today, all bets are off. I will trash talk the shit out of this place, you’ll see.”

Scott laughs, relieved.

They spend the day driving again. Stiles can’t keep his hands still, tapping and turning the radio on and off every few minutes, movements agitated. Scott doesn’t want to ask what’s wrong yet again, since that never seems to lead to anything but tenseness and silence.

Stiles is keeping up the chatter, asking Scott about college and people back home, but he seems distracted, running his fingers through his hair every so often.

“Your hair is getting long,” Scott comments.

“Yeah, I didn’t pack a hair clipper when I left. I guess I wanted a change.” Stiles grimaces.

“I like it,” he says, although he doesn’t actually have an opinion and all it really does for him is highlight the fact Stiles has been out of his life for a while.

“Yeah, well, I don’t like you for your fashion advice,” Stiles says absentmindedly.

They eat at McDonald’s this time, and Stiles buys them both Happy Meals. While Scott picks a table and waits as Stiles stands in line, another potentially unwelcome question occurs to him.

“I picked a toy for you, I hope you like it. Dibs on the glasses,” Stiles says, handing Scott his Happy Meal. He reaches into his own and pulls out a pair of Spiderman-mask shaped glasses. Scott looks into his own bag, fishing out his toy. It’s a tiny Spiderman action figure.

“You could’ve gotten two pairs of glasses,” he says, although he really doesn’t mind.

“I could have, but then you wouldn’t get to be jealous, and that wouldn’t be any fun for me,” Stiles says, putting his glasses on.

Scott snorts.

“Hey, um, you’ve paid for everything up until now, and while my bank account thanks you, I kind of feel bad about it?”

Stiles swallows a mouthful of fries. “Don’t worry about it. You need to save up for school and stuff.”

“Yeah but,” Scott says, “I have a job, you know, at the vet’s? And you—”

“I’ve saved up some money, don’t worry about it, Scott,” Stiles cuts him off, and there’s a warning in his voice, so Scott decides to shut up about it for now.

Stiles wears the glasses for the entirety of the meal. Scott insists on taking a picture, and Stiles dutifully makes a silly face. Immediately afterward, his expression shifts into something wistful and faraway.

“I’m not gonna post it to Facebook, you know,” Scott says, although he really wants to.

Stiles startles. “What?”

“You looked really worried there,” Scott says, instead of asking why he’s sad.

“Nah, post it,” Stiles says, taking the glasses off and scrubbing a hand over his head. “Have to memorialize this somehow.”

“I’m sure there will be better opportunities for that,” Scott says.

Stiles laughs, but there’s an edge to it. “You mean this meal was not the high point of your trip? Because I’m not sure I can top that.”

Scott smiles. “I have faith in you.”

-

The motel they stop at that night isn’t as far away from civilization as the last was, only a few miles west of Rapid City, and as a result, it looks much nicer. Scott is optimistic he won’t be contracting any tapeworms from the toilet, at any rate.

They’ve been watching TV for half an hour in bed when Stiles suddenly sits up. Scott, who had been almost asleep, startles.

“What’s wrong?”

“Ice cream,” Stiles says.

“Ice cream?”

“Yes, ice cream, Scott, you want any?”

Scott looks around. “There isn’t any ice cream here, Stiles.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “No, of course not. But there will be. You want some?”

“Now? You’re going out to buy ice cream now? It’s one in the morning!”

“Yeah, it’s one in the morning and I want ice cream. I have a craving, okay? So I’m going to get some. There’s a 24-hour convenience store like three miles from here. Any preferences?”

“No matter what I say, you’ll get chocolate chip anyway,” he sighs.

“Yes I will.” Stiles gets up. “Don’t fall asleep on me, I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

Stiles isn’t back in twenty minutes. Scott tries to call him after forty, but Stiles’ phone goes straight to voicemail. He calls again after one hour, with the same result.

He tries to quell the rising panic in his stomach. Stiles wouldn’t just leave him here, without a car or even a goodbye. There’s no reason for him to do that. But Stiles’ actions had stopped making sense to Scott nine months ago, and the thought of him taking off to god knows where is marginally more comforting than him bleeding out at the side of the road somewhere, jeep wrapped around a tree.

Scott is sitting on the floor in front of the TV, quietly freaking out to the backdrop of infomercials, when Stiles finally returns.

“You said twenty minutes! Where’ve you _been_?”

“Got lost, lost track of time,” Stiles mumbles, slumping down on the floor beside Scott. “Ice cream?” He offers Scott the container. Scott doesn’t know whether he’s supposed to pick an excuse or if Stiles expects him to accept both apply. They both sound equally unlikely, anyway.

He brought spoons, though, and Scott doesn’t want to argue, so he digs in. The ice cream is halfway melted already.

Stiles inches closer, putting his head on Scott’s shoulder. It’s an awkward angle, but Stiles doesn’t seem to mind. “What are we watching?”

“Right now we are about to find out whether that pan can really be cleaned in less than thirty seconds,” Scott says. “My money’s on the blonde chick. He doesn’t believe she has a magic pan.”

Stiles smiles around a spoonful of ice cream. “Riveting stuff.”

They are quiet for a few minutes. The pan does get cleaned in under thirty seconds.

“Were you worried about me tonight?” Stiles asks into the silence.

“Yeah,” Scott says.

“You shouldn’t worry about me,” he says softly.

Scott turns his head toward Stiles. This close, he can smell Stiles’ ice cream breath on his face. “I don’t think I can turn it off.”

Stiles smiles wryly.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” Scott asks.

“Nothing. Just, me.” Stiles closes his eyes.

Scott wants to say, ‘You are not wrong at all,’ but it’d sound mushy, even for him. Instead, he inches forward and presses his mouth against Stiles’. He tastes like chocolate. Stiles kisses him back for a second before pulling away.

“You have the worst timing.”

“I’m sorry,” Scott says.

“No, _I’m_ sorry. Everything I touch turns to shit.” He sounds so sad, and Scott has no idea what could possibly have happened to bring this on.

“I didn’t want to do this to you,” Stiles says.

“You haven’t done anything to me.”

Stiles sits up and turns off the TV. “Not yet.” He smiles, but it doesn’t look happy.

They end up sprawled on the floor, making out for a long time, the only sounds in the room their breathing and shuffling. When Stiles pulls back this time, the smile on his face is real. “We should sleep, we have to get out of here early tomorrow.”

“Why?” Scott whines. He could think of better things to do with their time than driving. Or sleeping, for that matter.

“Because I say so,” Stiles says. “Also, I’m tired, come on.”

They turn off the light, strip to their boxers and get under the covers. Scott wraps his arms around Stiles because he wants to, and Stiles lets him.

“You said you’d tell me eventually,” Scott whispers in the dark.

Stiles squeezes him. “Eventually is coming soon,” he says, before burying his face in Scott’s shoulder.

They sleep.

-

**_day four_ **

Scott wakes up to the sound of David Guetta’s _Shot Me Down_. He doesn’t know how long he slept, but it can’t have been more than three hours. He reaches for Stiles, to smack him over the head for this, but Stiles is already up and packing things into bags.

“Dude! You set an alarm? Also, that’s an awful song,” Scott says, hand blindly grabbing for the nightstand to turn the phone off. He hasn’t managed to completely open his eyes yet.

“Yeah, sorry, the original wouldn’t work for an alarm,” Stiles says from the bathroom.

“Not the problem here! Why do we have to get up this early, are you trying to kill me?” But he’s already sitting up, rubbing his eyes with one hand.

“Don’t be overdramatic, please. I have a plan that requires punctuality. You can sleep in the car, I’ll drive.”

“I take back every good thing I ever said about you. You are the worst friend. Worst!” He tries to stay angry, but he can hear Stiles laughing, and it’s a genuinely happy sound for the first time since he came back.

“You are delightful in the mornings, you know that?” Stiles asks.

“Yeah, well, you’re a pain in the ass,” Scott grumbles, but he’s smiling.

Scott falls asleep almost as soon as they pull out of the parking lot. There’s something about the feeling of wheels rolling over concrete that has always put him to sleep for as long as he can remember. Used to make long car journeys a lot less horrible when he was little.

He doesn’t wake up until almost noon. Stiles hands him a bottle of water as he stretches. “Sleep well?”

Scott yawns. “I’d have slept better in a bed.”

“There’ll be a bed tonight,” Stiles promises.

He can’t help grinning. “There will be?”

“Oh, get your mind out of the gutter!” Stiles smacks him over the head. “But yes, yes there will be,” and now he’s grinning too, and yeah, Scott is having an alright morning.

Stiles is full of nervous energy again, but it’s different from yesterday, less high-strung. He changes radio stations every other song, fingers drumming on the wheel.

They drive all day. Stiles hasn’t told him where they’re going, but he seems to want to cover as much ground as possible today. In the late afternoon, they have to stop for gas. Scott stays behind in the car while Stiles goes in to pay, turning on the radio and idly flipping through 1000 Places.

_“A convenience store clerk near Rapid City has been found strangled this morning. Tire tracks found on the scene could be linked to the sites of murders and disappearances all over the country. The police are looking into—”_

The door opens, and Scott quickly turns the radio off. His stomach feels like it just turned to stone.

Stiles looks at him sharply. “Everything alright there, buddy? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

He swallows. “No, I’m fine. Just, uh, hungry. Please tell me you brought me something?”

Stiles throws a sandwich at his head. Scott manages to catch it at the last moment. “Thank you, you’re a life saver,” he says. He’s not hungry at all, but taking a bite settles his stomach.

“Can’t let you starve now, can I?”

“You could, but life without me wouldn’t be any fun,” he says around a mouthful. He is already feeling less freaked out. Stiles is his best friend. Weird coincidences happen every day. Correlation doesn’t equal causation.

“No, it really wouldn’t be,” Stiles agrees.

The atmosphere in the car relaxes after that, but the radio stays off for the remainder of the drive.

-

They stop in the late afternoon, at a place near Sioux Falls. Stiles loads Scott with their bags, hands him some money and tells him to check in for him because he has to “get something real quick, won’t be more than half an hour.”

Scott watches the jeep pull out of the parking lot with a heavy heart. He stands in the cool air for another five minutes, trying to untangle the knot of worry in his stomach.

He gets a room and texts Stiles the room number, fully expecting not to see him for at least three hours, but he is actually back after thirty-four minutes this time. Scott is a bit embarrassed he counted, but the relief he feels seeing Stiles walk in the door with a small shopping bag in his hand drowns that out quickly.

“What did you get?” Scott asks. “You were being really mysterious.” 

“Was not! You didn’t ask.” Stiles looks a little offended, which really isn’t fair at all. Scott would rather choke on his tongue than admit he was scared to, though, it seems silly to him now.

“So?”

“Well, since we were talking about it the other day,” Stiles upends the bag over the bed and a hair clipper falls out, “I decided it’s time to cut my hair again.”

“Is that because I said I liked it long?” Scott asks, just to be difficult.

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Nah, don’t flatter yourself. It’s just time. Since I’m going home soon and all.”

“Want your dad to still recognize you?” he says.

Stiles expression flickers, like there’s something dark underneath, carefully hidden. “Yeah,” he breathes.

Scott takes hold of his shoulders and pulls him close, because he feels like he can now. He kisses Stiles on the mouth quickly. “Whatever it is, you can tell me,” he says.

Stiles closes his eyes, pulls Scott in and kisses him again, longer and deeper. “Not yet,” he says quietly when he pulls back. “Soon, but not yet.”

“You’ll tell me before we go home?”

“When you’re back home, you’ll know,” Stiles says, which is not exactly the same thing Scott said. He wants to make Stiles promise not to leave him again, but he knows pushing the issue won’t help.

Stiles turns and goes into the bathroom, but he doesn’t close the door all the way. Scott lies down on the bed and stares at the ceiling, listening to the buzzing of the clipper, then decides to call his mom.

“Scott?”

“Yes, Mom.”

“Finally remembered you promised to call, huh?”

“Mom, it’s only been three days,” he says, only realizing it’s true when the words leave his mouth. It feels much longer.

His mom laughs. “Well, yeah, but I worry. How are you? How’s Stiles?”

“I’m fine. But Stiles is a crazy slave driver, we’re on the road all day.”

“Where are you now? Tell me about all the awesome stuff you’ve seen, I know you’re dying to. Used to drive me crazy with that book of yours.”

He winces. “We’re in Sioux Falls, but we haven’t really seen anything yet. I think Stiles is holding out on a big surprise.” It’s only half a lie. Attractions seem to be the furthest thing from Stiles’ mind.

“When do you think you’ll be coming home?”

“I really don’t know, Mom. We still got another week.”

“Well, call me when you do. We’re gonna have dinner with the Sheriff.” It sounds like a threat.

“Okay, sure thing. Love you!”

“Love you too. Take care.”

Scott hangs up and sighs. It was good to hear his mom’s voice again, but he can’t put the weirdness of this trip into words, nor is he completely sure he wants to.

“Scott?” Stiles shouts from the bathroom.

“Yeah?” He walks over to the door and opens it.

Stiles is standing in front of the mirror with the clipper in his hand. He’s taken off his shirt, and there are tufts of hair lying on the floor by his bare feet.

“Can you help me get the back?” he asks.

“Sure, sit down.”

Scott has done this a lot for Stiles in the past, and it’s a comforting ritual that brings back a lot of memories, like the time in seventh grade Scott shaved Stiles' head and counted all the moles on his back. Stiles didn’t want to believe him that there were seventeen, so Scott had to take a picture to prove it.

Since Stiles has always been taller than Scott and it’s awkward trying to cut his hair standing up, they used to do it in the bathtub at one of their houses. The motel doesn’t have a bathtub, though, and the shower would be too cramped, so they sit down on the floor instead. Scott brackets Stiles' body with his legs and takes the hair clipper from him. His hair is soft and long in the back, short and prickly in the front, and Scott smoothes his left hand over it, feeling the texture.

“I’m not a cat, you know,” Stiles says, but he arches into it.

“No? Could’ve fooled me,” Scott says.

“Idiot.”

Scott hums.

Stiles is warm and solid under his hands, and the familiar buzzing of the clipper is soothing.

“I used to think about kissing you,” he says to Stiles' back. “When we were growing up, I used to think about kissing you a lot.”

“Why didn’t you?” Stiles asks.

“I thought it was one of those things everyone thinks about but doesn’t do. A _phase_.” He rolls his eyes at himself. “Also, I was scared of your dad. He has a gun.”

Stiles laughs, choked. “You’re not scared of him anymore, are you?”

“Nah. I’ll bring you home, that should put me in his good graces.”

“Dude, my dad loves you. You’re like the son he never had.” His voice sounds brittle.

“He already has a son,” Scott points out.

“True, but you’re better,” Stiles says, the last word trembling.

“Hey, are you crying?” he asks, alarmed.

“I just miss him,” Stiles says. “I know it’s stupid.”

Scott wants to hug him, and hates that he can’t right now. He runs a hand down his back instead. “No, you’ve been away for a long time. Do you want to go home?”

Stiles swallows. “No. I’m not done yet. I’m not done with you.”

There's a dirty joke on the tip of his tongue, but it doesn’t seem like the time.

“There, all done,” he says, turning the clipper off and brushing a hand across Stiles' head to clear away all the stray hairs.

“Thanks.” Stiles rubs a hand over his eyes, gets up from the floor and shakes himself like a cat. Scott smiles to himself.

He leaves the bathroom while Stiles takes a shower. He’d offer to get in with him if he didn’t think Stiles needed this time to collect himself. Scott doesn’t think sex is on the table tonight, Stiles is too distressed.

When Stiles comes out of the bathroom, in boxers and a t-shirt, Scott is lying on top of the covers. Stiles lies down next to him, turning toward him so they’re facing each other.

“It’s really easy to dry off now,” he says. “I don’t know why it took me so long to do it.”

“I like it. More than the long hair,” Scott confesses. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too,” Stiles says quietly. “I am glad we're here now.”

“Speaking of here,” Scott says. “Since we’re in the area, do you think we could visit the Waterpark of America in Minneapolis? I know you have stuff to figure out, but Mom asked me about what we’ve done and—”

“You talked to your mom?”

“Yeah, while you were cutting your hair. We don’t have to—”

Stiles cuts him off again. “No, it’s your road trip too. We can go to there tomorrow.”

He smiles. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” Stiles smiles back. It looks tiny and unsure, so Scott kisses him.

That night, Scott falls asleep curled around Stiles, tracing patterns on his back where he knows his moles are.

-

**_day five_ **

When Scott wakes up, Stiles is sitting on the floor in front of the bed, watching something on his phone.

“Whatcha looking at?” Scott asks sleepily.

He can see Stiles quickly navigating back to the home screen. “Um, I was looking at things to see in Minneapolis, actually. Like, besides giant indoor waterparks. Your mom would appreciate it if I showed you some culture.”

“But I like giant indoor waterparks.” Scott pouts. “Also, you promised.”

“And I intend to keep my promise. We can go to the waterpark tomorrow. That is, if you survive another day without it.”

He sighs. “Yeah, okay, so what do you have planned, oh wise and mature one?”

“Well, there’s this historic cemetery that’s supposedly really beautiful and cool to look at. It’s like a concentrated culture vaccination, so afterwards you are safe forever from parents doubting your appreciation of US history.”

“Really old dead people in really old graves? Have I ever told you you’re kind of morbid, Stiles?”

“Now and again. So?” He looks at Scott expectantly.

“Yeah, okay, let’s look at the dead people,” Scott sighs. He has always been bad at saying no to Stiles.

-

Scott will never understand people who willingly go to cemeteries they don’t have any relatives buried in. Only now he is apparently one of them as he trudges next to Stiles, who has his nose buried in a pamphlet. They are not doing a guided tour, thank god, Scott is sure that would take forever. Stiles isn’t known for his patience and tranquility, and Scott has never been more glad of that fact than he is right now, as they walk briskly between graves.

Stiles reads him facts from the pamphlet or his phone, comparing disagreeing sources and criticizing the prose of whoever wrote “that piece of propaganda trash.”

Scott is sure Lakewood Cemetery would be beautiful even only a few weeks from now, but this current bout of April weather means the grass is soggy, the paths are full of puddles, and the flower beds that look great on the website are muddy pits.

They’ve been walking through the drizzle for nearly three hours when Scott’s phone vibrates. It’s his mom, who almost never texts him unless she’s stuck in the hospital working overtime and can’t talk.

_Call me when you’re alone_ , it says.

Scott just looks at his phone for a minute, dumbfounded. He startles when Stiles touches his shoulder. He didn’t notice him moving behind him.

“Everything okay there?”

“Yeah, just—” He pauses, frowning. “Just my mom being weird.”

Stiles tilts his head. ”You’re not having fun here, are you?” Scott shakes his head, sheepish. “Come on, let’s get out of here,” Stiles says.

They get hot dogs (chili cheese for Stiles, ketchup and mustard for Scott), and Stiles makes a comment about how they’d totally win Fast Food Bingo, if only that were a game that existed. “There’s this thing called Minneapolis Sculpture Garden not far from here. It looks super dumb. We should totally go there, get all this culture out of our systems,” he proposes, and Scott agrees.

It _is_ super dumb. There’s what looks like a giant spoon with a cherry on it like an arch across a pond, a horse made out of what looks like branches, and a bunch of other, undefinable things that are probably supposed to look cool and futuristic, but only manage to look weird and like a waste of space.

“I know I don’t _get_ art,” Scott says, “but that’s not it, is it?”

“Nope,” Stiles says, popping the p. “But _they_ sure seem to think so.”

And that is probably the weirdest thing about this place, that as bad the weather is, and as empty as the cemetery was, there are people milling about _here_ , of all places, appearing to have fun.

Shortly after, Scott goes off to look for the toilet, which turns out to be at the very end of the park, probably to force the less gullible tourists to use all the pathways, too. On his way back, he’s just a few feet away from where Stiles is standing when Stiles’ phone starts ringing.

He takes it out of his pocket and looks at it like it's a venomous snake, then winds up and throws it right into the pond. It lands with a splash beneath the shadow of the cherry.

Scott is pretty sure Stiles didn’t want him to see this, so he waits for another two minutes, watching Stiles stand motionlessly in front of the pond, before walking up to him.

Stiles turns to him with unusually bright eyes. “Want to get going? I think if this place leeches any more culture, brain matter will start dribbling out of my ears.”

“Hey, it was your idea,” Scott says.

They’re almost at the parking lot when Scott gets another text. This one is in all caps.

_CALL ME. STILES IS IN TROUBLE._

Scott turns off his phone.

-

Darkness falls as they’re driving. Stiles is silent, tense, but not twitchy, lost in thoughts Scott can’t fathom. They make it another thirty miles before he sighs quietly and says, “There’s probably no point going any farther. There’s a motel around here that’s decent.”

Scott doesn’t ask why they couldn’t have stayed at the last one again, which was decent too. He doesn’t ask what Stiles is running from.

The parking lot they pull into is empty, and Stiles frowns. “I don’t want to leave my jeep here.”

“You think it’ll get stolen?” he asks, just so Stiles isn’t talking to himself.

Stiles hmms noncommittally, handing Scott his wallet. “You go ahead, book us a room, I’ll find another place to park.”

He gets out and doesn’t wait for Stiles to pull away before heading toward the entrance. He knows this time that Stiles won’t leave him, although he couldn’t say what makes him so sure.

“Room for two, please,” he tells the old woman at the reception. “Double bed.”

She lifts an eyebrow sceptically.

“My boyfriend is parking the car,” Scott says, with emphasis, because he can and because right now, he can understand Stiles’ impulse to poke at people.

She snorts. “Sure, sweetheart, that’ll be sixty.” Scott hands her the money. “Here’s your key. Don’t break anything.”

The room looks like it hasn’t been remodeled since the seventies, drab yellows and browns and cheap plastic furniture that has definitely seen better days. It is clean, though, and the bed doesn’t croak when Scott sits down on it.

Stiles returns ten minutes later with their bags. “That lady out front looked at me funny, what did you say to her?”

He laughs. “I think she thought I was going to call a hooker. I told her my boyfriend was parking the car. Guess she didn’t believe me.”

Stiles grins. “Maybe she thought _I_ was a hooker.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“Hey, I could totally be a hooker!”

“Not dressed like that,” Scott says, gesturing to Stiles’ dirty hoodie and pants. He pauses for effect. “But you’re totally hot enough.”

Stiles steps toward him. “I’m way hotter,” he says, and then he’s on Scott, kissing him like his life depends on it.

Scott falls back onto the bed and Stiles crawls over him, fingernails digging into his back as he pulls Scott’s shirt off. Scott uncoordinatedly paws at his hoodie, getting it unzipped and then totally tangling Stiles in his clothes as he tries to get his shirt off simultaneously.

Stiles draws back, almost falling off the bed as he does so. “You should tell me you’re into bondage _before_ incapacitating me,” he says, “this is lousy etiquette.”

“Sorry,” Scott says, sitting up and helping Stiles untangle himself. They manage to get all their clothes off, and then it’s just bruising kisses and hands on skin for a while. Stiles holds on too hard, like he’s afraid Scott is going to disappear from beneath him.

Eventually, Stiles' hand brushes Scott’s cock, and Scott thinks it’s probably time for a confession. “I, um, I’ve never done this before.”

“You think I have?” Stiles asks, kissing Scott again, hand grasping him more firmly.

Scott thinks saying, ‘I don’t know, you’ve been away for a while’ would probably ruin the mood completely, so all he says is: “Just thought I’d let you know. In case I—uhh—suck.”

“Impossible,” Stiles gasps, “I mean, unless—” and Scott has to kiss him to shut him up.

Stiles has started to jerk him off in earnest now, and Scott doesn’t want to finish before him, so he trails his hand down Stiles’ stomach and takes hold of his dick. It’s an unfamiliar angle, but judging from the sounds Stiles makes it’s working for him.

Scott closes his eyes, concentrating on the movements of his hand, the feeling of Stiles against him, and all he can think is that this is Stiles, he has a hand on Stiles’ dick, he’s having _sex_ with _Stiles_.

When Stiles comes, he buries his face in Scott’s shoulder, teeth biting down so hard Scott thinks he might draw blood. Scott follows only seconds later, muffling his shout into Stiles’ skin.

They just lie there for a few minutes, waiting for their breathing to slow down. When Scott opens his eyes, Stiles is looking at him, wide-eyed.

“We did that,” he breathes.

Scott laughs. “Yes we did. Best road trip ever, accept no substitutes,” He feels dizzy with happiness.

Stiles smiles a weird little smile. “I’m glad you had fun.”

“You didn’t?”

“Time of my life,” he says, and kisses him.

They clean up and crawl into bed again, tangled up together and facing each other. Scott can feel Stiles looking at him in the dark, tracing one finger over the bite mark on his shoulder, until he falls asleep.

-

Scott jerks awake in the middle of the night. It is dark, and the bed beside him is empty. At first he doesn’t know what woke him, but then he hears it again. Another gunshot.

He’s out of the bed within seconds, barely remembers to snatch his keys from the nightstand before stumbling out into the night. The front of the motel is quiet and empty in the light of the motion sensor lamp. He walks around the building and into the abandoned parking lot. There’s movement way at the back, where a couple of dumpsters stand. He thinks there might be a fight going on, judging from the clatter and muffled groaning noises.

He slows his steps without thinking. His brain is on a loop of _Please let Stiles be okay_ , actively not thinking of what he knows he’ll be finding when he gets close enough.

“Stiles?” he whisper-shouts, mouth dry and heart pounding.

There’s some shuffling, and then Stiles' head pops up, and Scott can’t remember making the decision but he’s already running towards him.

Stiles barrels into him when he’s only a few feet from the dumpster, wrapping both arms around him.

“I love you, okay? Scott, I love you,” he says before Scott pushes past him, kissing the first part of Scott’s face he can reach, which ends up somewhere between his cheek and his temple.

There’s a body behind the dumpster. Not a dead one, this time, if the quiet groaning is any indication.

It’s a man, and in the faint moonlight, Scott can make out that he’s wearing a police uniform.

He doesn’t get a chance to do or say anything before Stiles steps beside him, raising the gun Scott hadn’t realized he was holding, and shoots the cop between the eyes.

Scott looks at Stiles and Stiles looks back, face open and vulnerable. Scott’s heart is trying to beat out of his chest, and he can’t breathe. He can’t breathe.

He’s gasping for air, and Stiles wraps an arm around him, guiding him back to the room, quietly murmuring things Scott can’t make out over the deafening beating of his heart, the buzzing in his ears. He thinks he’s dying.

At some point he realizes they've made it to the room, there’s a bed under him, and he thinks Stiles is telling him to lie down, and then there’s nothing for a while.

He doesn’t know how long it takes before he consciously recognizes the ceiling above him. It’s a pale yellow color, probably from decades of people ignoring the ‘no smoking’ sign on the door. He doesn’t know if he just opened his eyes or if they were open the whole time.

His heart has slowed down to a normal rate, and he can breathe freely again. He sits up and finds Stiles has put a glass of water on the nightstand. He drinks it down quickly before raising his eyes to where Stiles is sitting, on a chair he had to have dragged over there, facing the bed. The gun is lying on a table beside him.

He’s holding Scott’s inhaler, turning it over in his hands.

“You had a panic attack,” he says. “Not an asthma attack.” He is being very still, face unreadable.

Scott knows. If it had been an asthma attack, he’d be dead right now.

Stiles throws the inhaler up with one hand, catching it with the other when it comes back down. And again.

Scott swallows. His mouth feels dry despite the water he just drank.

“You killed that cop,” he says.

“Yes,” Stiles answers calmly, looking straight at him.

“Why?”

Stiles laughs a bit. It sounds ugly. “Because I have no control over myself. Though, to be fair, he was here for me.”

Scott says nothing, but the silence speaks for him.

“I killed the convenience store clerk the other night. I know you know about that.”

He nods mutely.

“And the mechanic at the garage when we were sixteen. And that video rental store guy. I killed a lot of people, Scott.”

“Why?” Scott asks again. His doesn’t understand any of this. If it were a nightmare, though, he’d have woken up screaming by now.

“Because I have no control over myself!” Stiles splays his arms wide. “The answer hasn’t changed since the last time you asked.”

“The, the girl in your trunk. You said it was an accident.” His head is spinning.

“It was! I didn’t plan to do it! She was just there, in the middle of the night, all alone. I didn’t have to run her over, but it was just way too easy not to!” He sounds desperate, like any of this is supposed to make sense.

“I don’t understand,” Scott says. He feels like he’s going to throw up.

“I can’t stop it. I’ve tried, believe me. I thought maybe going away would make it easier. My dad’d never suspect me, none of the people back home would. I thought if I could just get out, I might be able to stop. I was wrong.” His voice gets quieter and quieter the longer he speaks, ending just above a whisper.

Scott can’t say anything to that, but it doesn’t seem to matter. The dam has broken, and Stiles is talking quickly now, urgently.

“You have no idea how easy it is. I look at people and I know exactly how I could kill them. It’s so fucking easy, Scott! Just now, if you really had had an asthma attack, it would've been as easy as not giving you your inhaler. And no one would ever know!”

He throws the inhaler to Scott. Scott catches it easily, hands on autopilot.

“And if I didn’t want to do that, I could always shoot you,” Stiles says, dispassionate. He picks up the gun from the table, cocks it and points it at Scott.

“There’s a million ways I could kill you right now,” he finishes softly. He lowers the gun again, grasping the barrel and extending it to Scott, grip first.

Scott takes it with a shaking hand but doesn’t point it at Stiles. He holds it in both hands, looking down at it.

“Then why don’t you?” he asks quietly.

Stiles flails. “Because I don’t want to!” There are tears in his eyes now. “I didn’t lie earlier, I really do love you. I never wanted to bring you into this.”

“Why did you come back then?” Scott asks. He isn’t sure if he’d have wanted Stiles to stay gone, even after all he knows now, but if he had, Scott wouldn’t be sitting here right now, life in shambles.

“Because I’m selfish,” Stiles says, voice breaking, and Scott realizes he’s crying. “I’m going to die and I wanted to see you again. I’m sorry.” He looks away, rubbing a hand over his newly shaven head.

In the silence that follows Stiles’ words, Scott can hear his laboured breathing. He looks at Scott, not bothering to wipe his eyes, and the defeat on his face is the scariest thing Scott has ever seen.

“You’re not going to die!” Scott shouts, like being louder will make it true.

“Yes I am,” Stiles says, sure. “As long as I’m alive and free, I will never be able to stop killing people. I’m not sure I could stop if I was locked up, either.” He laughs a little. “I’m really fucking good at it, you know?”

He swallows. “But it doesn’t matter. The plan isn’t being taken alive. The plan is dying. I wanted to go on a road trip with you, like we’d always planned, and then I wanted to kill myself. But I screwed it up. Because I have no control over myself. And now you’re in it too, and I’m sorry.” He looks at Scott so earnestly it hurts.

“I’m not going to watch you kill yourself,” Scott says, voice trembling.

“Actually,” Stiles says, smiling through his tears, “I was thinking you should shoot me. They’re coming for me now, I’m pretty sure that cop called dispatch before I took him down. And here’s as good a place as any. You can tell them I forced you to come with me at gunpoint. You’ll come out of this a hero.”

Scott is shaking his head rapidly. “No, no. Stiles, what about your dad?”

“There’s a note for him in my bag. It’d be great if you could give it to him, but it’s not like I can force you.” He laughs. “Dad’ll be better off without me,” he finishes softly, looking down at his sneakers.

Scott really doubts that. He’s known the Sheriff for as long as he’s known Stiles, and this will break him. There really doesn’t seem to be a solution to this that won’t do that, though.

They are quiet for a moment. Scott can hear police sirens in the distance.

“They’re coming. Come on, Scott, shoot me!”

“No!”

“Shoot me, damn it! Shoot me!”

“No!”

“Please, Scotty, please. This is the best way, please,” he begs.

Scott raises the gun, but his hands are shaking too much for him to do anything but hold it.

“I can’t,” he gasps, and now he’s crying, too. “I can’t, I can’t. I can’t let you do this. I can’t!”

Stiles is on him in a second, wrangling the gun out of his hands. He steps back and lifts it to his temple, tears streaming down his face.

The sirens sound closer now.

“No, no, Stiles, you can’t do this, you can’t leave me here, Stiles!” Scott screams. They are both crying and shaking, but Stiles’ hand on the gun is steady.

“I have to,” he whispers. “I’m so sorry, Scott.”

“Stiles, I love you, you hear me, you can’t leave me here! I don’t know what to do!” Scott swallows. “You have to… you have to kill me first,” he says.

Stiles gapes at him. “Are you serious?”

He nods. “Yeah, do it.”

Stiles lowers the gun from his temple. His hands are shaking now, but he points it at Scott.

Scott squeezes his eyes shut. “Do it,” he repeats.

“Okay,” Stiles says quietly. “Okay.”

Scott tenses, but the gunshot doesn’t come. He can hear the sirens out front of the motel now, the sound of voices and feet on the pavement.

He opens his eyes. Stiles is holding the gun with two hands now, looking at Scott with wide eyes.

“I can’t do it,” he says, and it sounds like a revelation. “I can’t kill you, Scott.” His hands are shaking.

Scott steps toward Stiles and takes the gun from him. There are footsteps just outside the door now.

“Police! Stilinski, open the door!”

“They're going to kick it in,” Stiles says dazedly.

Scott makes a decision. He steps next to Stiles and takes his hand. If he can’t die and Stiles can’t die, that only leaves one thing.

He raises the gun and turns to the door.

**Author's Note:**

> **Warning for: non-graphic description of a dead body, non-graphic murder scene (head shot), description of a panic attack, attempted suicide. None of the main characters actually die in the fic, but it is open ended and it is very possible that they will die.**
> 
> If you paid attention, you’ve noticed that the Spiderman toys are anachronistic, since this story is set in March/April. However, the idea was [too cute to pass up](http://i.ebayimg.com/t/Spiderman-Glasses-Kids-Toy-from-McDonalds-Fancy-Dress-Item-Sealed-/00/s/MTIwMFgxNjAw/z/rPgAAMXQtUxTcTax/%24_35.JPG). 
> 
> As someone who isn’t an American citizen and has never been on a cross-state road trip I apologize for any inaccuracies.
> 
> No offense meant to neither the Lakewood Cemetery nor the Minneapolis Sculpture Garden. No sculptures were damaged during the writing of this fic.
> 
> Say hi on [tumblr](http://popsongnation.tumblr.com/).


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